Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)(79)
Maybe that was the answer, why the goddess had bound the two of us together. Because here was a fire that I could keep for myself, something that was meant to be mine.
“Why do you always do that?” He exhaled on a light laugh, eyes heavy-lidded with pleasure as I ran my palms down his cheeks, the sides of his neck, the firm lines of his chest.
“Because I like to look at you,” I told him, leaning forward to nuzzle my cheek against his. “It makes me happy.”
Dipping my head, I ran my lips down his neck, then sank my teeth into the defined curve of his shoulder, like I wanted to do whenever I saw it bare. I bit down hard, hard enough for him to feel a bright sting of pain that made his hips buck against mine, a low groan tearing from his throat.
Moving slowly, deliberately, teeth followed by lips and tongue, I bit him from the outer curve of his shoulder to his throat, leaving a series of imprints on his skin, little crescents that marked him as mine. His hands roamed over my back, fingertips digging hard into the tuck of my waist, palms sweeping up to cup my breasts and squeeze them through my bra.
“Bedroom,” I whispered to him, nipping at his ear. “Now.”
By the time we made it to his bed, we’d both somehow managed to shed pants and underwear with impressive efficiency, leaving a messy trail of discarded clothing behind us. Then there was only skin and heat, the length of him against me as he pressed me into the comforter, trailing kisses down my ribs and stomach, nipping at the insides of my thighs until I thought I might pass out from breathing so hard. His mouth moved between my legs, the slick heat of his tongue sliding deftly against me as his lips fit around my clit, making me cry out. I could feel the intensity of his reaction to my own wetness and warmth, the way sucking and licking me made him feel the same kind of out-of-control lust.
And he felt mine, the pleasure building in me to that sweet, piercing crescendo, so hard and fast it took all I had to keep it at bay.
“Fuck, you taste so perfect, Nina,” he breathed against me, trembles racing up my legs at his exhale. “I could do this all damn night.”
“Some other time,” I promised, pressing my head back into his pillows. “Tonight, I want you inside me. Right now.”
He slid up my body, bolstering himself on his forearms, hands cupped warmly around my face. We were kissing deep as he slid slowly, carefully inside me, me gasping into his mouth as my head arched back.
“Like that?” he asked, a low chuckle in his voice.
“Like that,” I confirmed shakily, biting back another gasp.
He rocked against me; not the full length of him, just enough to drive me wild with the promise of much more. It felt like the most agonizing sweetness, a delicious, tantalizing tease that made me swear into his mouth. He drew back enough to smile at me, and for a moment we grinned at each other, purely delighted that we were here together, so entwined and vulnerable.
“Stop teasing me, Gutierrez,” I demanded, reaching up to snare his lips in a biting kiss. “And show me some things.”
“If you insist.”
“And don’t be careful with me, you know I want this. I want to feel everything.”
With a shuddering groan, he thrust fully into me, in deep and forceful strokes that made me press my palms against his headboard to steady myself, take perverse pleasure in how hard it smacked against the wall. I wasn’t sure if Morty had neighbors on this side, but if he did, they weren’t going to be at all confused about what was happening tonight. I shifted to sling both legs over his shoulders, wanting even more; more impact, more pressure, simply more of everything.
The resulting angle was so deep that my moans pitched up into little shrieks, and I slid a hand between us, so caught up in my own pleasure and Morty’s own spiraling lust that I couldn’t wait to come.
“Almost there,” I moaned into his mouth, tangling one hand tight into his hair. “So close.”
“I know,” he gasped against me, running his tongue along my lower lip. “Me too.”
When I came, it was with the kind of clenching, seismic spasm that felt like it echoed through my body, melting down my legs and curling my toes—stronger than something should ever be and still leave you alive after it. But it was doubled, tripled, then raised to an impossible degree by Morty’s own orgasm, fitting into the seams that mine left behind, drenching us both with a shocking flood of pleasure. I could hear myself screaming as if from a tunnel’s length away, in a raw, stripped cadence that sounded like it belonged to someone else but felt entirely mine—and hearing Morty, too, the helpless pitch of his own cries, only leveled everything up.
The pleasure felt like it took much longer than it should to subside, furious aftershocks that sent reverberating ripples through us both. When it finally receded, Morty lowered himself onto me with shaking arms, his heart beating so furiously through his chest I could feel it hammering against mine.
“Could I just chill here for a minute,” he panted, “or am I too heavy? Because if I move right now, I might straight die.”
“Oh, don’t die, please.” I wrapped my arms and legs around him, cheek pressed against his, his hair damp and cool against my temple. “You stay right where you are, and take your time.”
* * *
Later, lying nestled against his chest with my skin still teeming with warmth, a twinging, unexpected sadness snuck over me. “What’s wrong, babe?” Morty murmured sleepily. He’d been drowsing while I listened to the calming cadence of his breath and thought myself in circles; I rarely got to enjoy a mellow orgasmic afterglow, “Not today, peace,” being my brain’s staunchest slogan.